For What It's Worth
by Sasukeluva 4eva
Summary: A damaged man she loves. But regardless of the sacrifices she has to make, it is always worth it. He is always worth it. Please R&R.


**a/n: Because I am obsessed with this pairing in reality. No denying it. :D**

**Prompts: **The Moon and the Nightspirit by _**The Secret Path**_, Never Let Me Go by _**Florence & The Machine**_, **Emotional** _Up_heaval, **Conn**—_ection_!

**Categories: **Drama/_**Romance**_/_Angst_

**Characters: U**chiha **F**ugaku**x **_U__**chiha**__ M__**ikoto**_

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: IDNON, BIDHTOS! That is all. (:**

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**Summary: **

_A damaged man she loves. But regardless of the sacrifices she has to make, it is always worth it. __**He**__ is always worth it._

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**Sasukeluva 4eva presents;**

_**For What It's Worth**_

_Fugaku x Mikoto Oneshot_

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_._

_**P**__.R.E.F.A.C.E._

_._

When she had first laid eyes upon the prestigious heir to the Uchiha clan, she had known without really _knowing_ that he was no ray of sunshine.

He was a man of strict discipline, one that was under the distinct impression that all women were incapable and inept on the battle field, and in all things remotely tactical; were useless armoury in the wake of the finest male shinobi the world over.

Irrespective that she was of Uchiha descent as well, with her own kekkei genkai to attest to her claim, she was still at a moot point, in his officiated opinion—regardless of sharing their revered ocular traits, the Uchiha females were still considered to be of lower standing to the men, or in his words, _weaker_.

_It isn't as if they are capable of utilising the sharingan to its full potential_, he had remarked coolly one casual evening out—for once; his social conventions were certainly debatable, left much to be desired—with his fellow teammates, ignorant of the attention that his curt quips were summoning.

She still seethed bitterly at the memory, before extinguishing it with a more pleasant notion—the day that she made him metaphorically swallow his offensive vernacular sprung to the forefront of her ponderings, an amused smile tweaking at her lips as she remembered the look of unadulterated incomprehension dawning across his ruggedly handsome features when she had bested him in their taijutsu sparring session (organised by said woman to prove to the chauvinistically egoistic male that not all women were as 'weak' as he so avidly inferred on a routine basis; it was as if slighting his female counterparts was the only thing he could think of to keep him entertained), her body straddling his awkwardly, black tomoes spinning rapidly in the crimson pools of her bleeding irises as she smiled down at him in pleased gratification.

_I think it best you redefine your current definition of __**weak**__, Uchiha-sama; wouldn't want the __**superior sex**__ to know that __**you**__**lost**__ to a frail little __**girl**_, she recalled herself saying to him in response to all of his uncouth jibes at the female population, before she recoiled from his frame, as if she had been struck, turning tail and bolting away from the ardent cheers that had erupted at her victory over the prideful elder male.

* * *

**O.o.o.o.o.o.O**

* * *

When she next laid eyes upon him, he hadn't changed all that much; still cold, still indifferent to the joys of living—the downer that inevitably brought rain instead of sunshine to every place he ventured. She had made sure to avoid his presence like he was the carrier of the plague, apparently wary of what her 'crushing' defeat (as that was what his teammates and closest friends were describing it as) had invoked in him—she may have been eager to shift his mindset on the women of both their clan, and the entire shinobi world in general, but she had not wished to incur his ire, wrath, because of it.

But when she settled her gaze upon him on that brief second encounter, he merely stared back with equal fervour, a perplexing expression falling upon his countenance as he continued to hold her unwavering glance with one of his own.

She had felt a burning heat flame to life beneath the delicate porcelain of her cheeks as she realised with abject mortification that his gaze had trailed to the exposed front of her traditional kimono, which had fallen apart to reveal softly bound cleavage when she had showed her respects to him (and bowed), and she quickly corrected the vulgar display with frantic gesticulations, her meek ebony irises rising to meet his usual hardened face.

But as she quickly made her escape (having bowed—with her arms wrapped tautly around her bust to prevent the same mistake from coming into occurrence once again—and dismissed herself from his presence), she could not help but notice the faint outline of an amused smirk tugging at his sinfully plush lips, his eyes trailing after her frame long after she had made herself sparse.

* * *

**O.o.o.o.o.o.O**

* * *

When she next laid eyes upon him, it was to be the last time as 'strangers'—the next time that they met, was when their marriage had been arranged, by two sets of meddlesome parents. She had thought that he would protest (for although she did not particularly wish to be joined with him in matrimony, she was but a humble member of _his_ esteemed clan, and so she would do as he wished of her), or at least glare disdainfully in her direction, but as expected, he remained calm and aloof, his hooded eyes observing her subservience quietly from his place across from her.

Kneeling upon tatami mats, the two 'families' (as although they were essentially a 'clan', they were two distant kinsfolk coming together as one) rejoiced over the "mutual partnership", their happiness not felt by either of the affected parties.

She was smiling passively, compliantly; he was raining down on everyone's parade.

When she laid eyes upon him in that moment, she felt nothing.

Empty, desolate; just like the man himself.

* * *

**O.o.o.o.o.o.O**

* * *

The subsequent gaze that she sent him when he had saved her from falling into the craterous void of the clan's river was not so barren; he had been stoic in his embarrassment (as he had been when he had been ordered by his father to do the honourable thing and court his to-be significant other), but the soft glance he had spared her in that single instant, and the subtle, contented smile that flitted futilely across his set, stony lips, was enough for her inner hollowness to melt away—if only a little.

When she laid eyes on him then, she knew that he wasn't as cold as he pretended to be.

No, he was no sunshine, but there was light in him yet.

* * *

**O.o.o.o.o.o.O**

* * *

One idle day, when it was simply the two of them enjoying one another's company, she turned to him, and it dawned upon her like a tidal wave of emotion—when she laid her eyes upon him for the fourth time, she realised that she was in love.

And what startled her even more was that she was okay with that.

Oh yes, she knew that whenever she would set her gaze upon his tense, disciplined figure, that he was not and would _never_ be a ray of sunshine, but that was alright.

Simply because he was _her_ ray of infinitesimal sunshine, and with that she was thereby _whole_, and she was satisfied with the feeling.

* * *

**O.o.o.o.o.o.O**

* * *

When he held her for the first time in his naked embrace, their limbs a tangled mess amongst crinkled bed sheets, she truly saw him—such damaged colours, distorted in his endless depths of coal, and blurred without equal.

He had seen colour through warped, twisted eyes his whole life, and for the first time, he was seeing the world as she saw it—half full, rather than half empty.

This time, when _he_ lay his now tender gaze upon _her_ flushed, sweaty features, he saw not sunshine or a pot of insurmountable wealth (as much as she had come to mean to him), but his rainbow of magnificent colours, a rainbow that would paint his own colours over and give him new ones to love and cherish also.

When he looked at her writhing, arching form, he found sanctuary, _home_.

When he gazed upon her demure person, he found one who could cure him of his colour blindness and show him what it was like to truly _see_.

When he looked at her amidst heated climax, he was no longer broken.

* * *

**.**

**..**

**..**

**.**

"Another mission…?"

Mikoto questioned quietly, her eyes ever expressive as she locked intent gazes with her beloved husband, who had arrived home at too prompt an hour to suggest that he was taking time off for her.

The answering glance, brief as it was, was all the confirmation that she needed, before a sad smile tilted her at her docile lips, and she moved forward from her position in the doorway, feet shuffling soundlessly against the wooden floorboards as she closed the distance between them, her hands coming to rest upon his rigid shoulders, too high for her to reach with ease due to the obvious difference in height.

His back to her, supplies scattered over their bed in chaotic disarray, only proved as much; he loved his missions, without a doubt, but he hated the fact that the ones that he accepted would inevitably upset his wife, for they were too long in duration for her liking.

The blood of a true warrior sung deeply within his veins, thrumming as strongly as his own pulse, and he could not deny it the pleasures of its calling, much to the ravenette's utter despair.

Even with their first child, their beloved little Itachi-chan, well into his fourth year of life and eager to be with his father more than ever, Fugaku could not bring himself to be at peace—he needed action in order to continue onward, and as much as Mikoto despised this particular trait of his, she could do nothing but embrace it as a part of him.

One of his biggest flaws, but one that was also a distraction from the damage that had been unleashed upon him as a child growing up under the intense pressures and scrutinies of the upper Uchiha echelon, and if it was his malformed way of dealing with the volatile after-effects of such scarring "treatment", then all his loving wife could do was be complacent and accepting of it.

She loved him too much not to.

Fugaku seemingly tensed further at her touch, not at all in the mood for physical contact, as that would only lead to further temptation on his part; sex had been less than fruitful of late, Itachi having made the habit of crawling into bed with them, and because he loved his son (the brightest colour Mikoto had painted for him) too much to complain, he had let the child be, bringing both his beloved and his juvenile kid into his steely embrace.

But after eight months of absolutely no intimacy whatsoever, he was as uptight as a barbed coil, almost at bursting point, and any form of caress could lead to him spontaneously combusting on the spot.

Thus why he was justified in his following actions; shrugging her delicate palms from his unyielding shoulders, the Uchiha patriarch stepped away from her bewildered form, resolute orbs keenly averted from her face (for her expression would surely be his undoing) as he strode across the room to collect his wilting knapsack, with the intent of packing for the long journey ahead.

He was to be deployed to Amegakure for an extended duration of twelve months (and he wondered why Mikoto hated this part of him so much?) in order to gather Intel on their ambiguous activities of late, and compile a detailed folio outlining what cautionary methods would be best employed to counteract whatever it was that they were allegedly planning.

It wasn't as if Mikoto wasn't honoured that the Sandaime Hokage himself had recommended Fugaku and his team for the job—she could not have felt more pride in his strength than she had after she had been told through the grapevine of passers-by that he had been commissioned—it was the fact that he would be away for so long that upset her so profoundly.

Without a doubt, she had known, that if such an opportunity had ever arisen prior to Itachi's birth that Fugaku would have taken up the calling without batting an eyelash, in a heartbeat; he was the true definition of a shinobi, that he was, and sometimes, it was hard for her to live with.

A sad smile settled upon her dainty lips; a common occurrence that she had come to terms with even before their son was born, before she moved to her stiff husband's side, gently prying the rucksack from his taut grip, and setting it down upon the bed.

Without needing to look up at his face to know that he was watching her like a hawk, Mikoto began to sort through his clothing, deciding what was more suited to the gruelling conditions of Ame and placing them into the dark bag, depositing the remaining items in a neat pile off to the side, so that she could put them back into their rightful places later.

Amidst her quiet shuffling and organisation, Mikoto spoke, voice soothing and kind; defying her unusual inner state of turmoil.

"I can pack your things for you, so please take your time preparing.

The water in the shower should have heated, so why don't you take one to palliate your nerves? I'm sure that would help you relax into your new role."

She faced him then, with a bright smile, her eyes closed in order to stave off the tears that she could feel welling up inside her aching heart, her hands pausing amid her folding his clothing, before she returned her sights to the weaponry before her, a rut furrowing her delicate brow as she contemplated on which he would prefer to take with him, and which would only weigh his progress down.

He was a very choosy man, after all, and wanted a specific balance in his every possession, so that the appropriate efficiency could be established when he employed them in combat situations. That only made her choices all the more integral.

Leaning over the tarpaulin duffel bag, Mikoto reached for what she already knew to be Fugaku's favourite weapon of choice in battle, a solid, sharpened katana, now sheathed, that he had had since before she had even met him, the hilt gaining a tint of rust around the corners—indicating the wear and tear that the adored blade had undergone under the utilisation of its owner.

Smiling fondly at the familiar object, Mikoto tucked it into one of the larger side-flaps, securing it in place alongside the set of expensive kunai and shuriken that she had bought him for a past birthday, knowing that they would not only prove useful if he found himself in a tight spot, but also serve as a subtle reminder that she was awaiting his return with an anxious, heavy heart.

Perhaps it would urge him to complete the mission with haste, so that he could return to her eager embrace?

She almost chuckled at the thought; her husband was not one to be tied down by obligations by any means, although he had since formed roots that forced him to stay within a strict limit.

He had a family to take care of, after all, and so he had to ensure his survival for their sake.

He could not leave his lovely wife, who stood by him even in uncertain circumstances, and in instances where she was anything but in the like with him, alone to bring up his son in the ways of chiefdom.

He could not bear to leave _her_ alone.

Watching silently as she floundered for any excuse to not meet his gaze, for any excuse to ignore the hurt that she was feeling, Fugaku felt a crushing sense of guilt encumbering his usual judgement, and coupled with Mikoto's demure attempts at brushing her long, silky black locks away from her neck and face, he felt his resolve fall apart as quickly as hers did, as no sooner did her chin tremble, he was already behind her prone frame, arms draped around her waist and his head buried in the depths of her velvet locks.

God, he'd missed this, missed _her_.

She melted into his embrace without any hesitance, head resting against the vast expanses of his chest, her height leaving much to be desired as she could not begin to reach his shoulder.

Titling her gaze to the roof, she willed her tears away, swallowing them within herself as a proper clan matriarch was supposed to, her eyes still glassy, but withdrawn from her irrational, silly emotions.

Fugaku's grip tightened, pulling her as close as their physical bodies would allow, his left arm loosening his grip upon her lax figure so that he could lift the scented veil of ebony from her neck, his lips pressing gingerly against her pulse point.

God he loved this woman!

Mikoto felt her heart press tightly against her ribcage, suddenly finding the room several degrees too warm, and that it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe with his mouth hovering over her flesh like a second skin.

Finding her voice, she spoke, a strained squeaking noise replacing her former calm.

"F-Fugaku—! W-What are you doing?"

He was quiet for a moment, silently contemplating his response as he sucked on her pulse point, eyes heavily hooded as he flicked his tongue around the angry bruise that had begun to form on his wife's throat, before he peeled his mouth away, hot, moist breaths blowing against the shell of her inviting ear as he replied, hands pulling her closer to the throbbing tent in his khaki sweatpants as he made his intentions known.

"_**Shower**_. You. Me. _Now_."

Mikoto blushed at the forwardness in his gravelly tone, the husky muttering defying his usual monotonous indifference; she could practically _taste_ his desire for her on her own tongue, and when he titled her head back to dip his tongue into her waiting cavern, she was rewarded with solid confirmation.

He wanted her, with an urgency that she could reciprocate with little trouble, and she was more than happy to oblige. Itachi was still at the Academy with Shisui—it being only eleven in the morning—and so she had no reservations about losing her clothing in the privacy of her own bedroom.

Raising her arms so that they could wind indefinitely around his firm neck, Mikoto tugged him ever closer, her lips parting further so that she could better slant her mouth over his; her tongue in turn tasted his own, her hands weaving through his soft brown locks in order to bring his face closer to hers.

With her neck craned and her back to his chest, kissing became slightly uncomfortable, and as if on cue, Fugaku turned her prone frame toward him, so that their fronts were pressed in delicious sync.

His erection had grown further, until it was rubbing awkwardly against her slim tummy, the fire beneath her navel bursting alight even more so as she stood upon her tippy toes, Fugaku craning over her tiny figure so that he could reconnect their hungry mouths.

The ravenette slipped her hands down his broad, muscled shoulders, fingers splayed across the dark material of his navy shirt as she trailed them in an almost frenzied manner down to the hem of the fabric barricade, first scraping her nails over the distended nubs that were his nipples, before clawing her way down, down, down, until she had the edge of his top clasped firmly between her clenched fists.

Taking that as his cue, Fugaku all but tore the shirt from his back, ripping it over his head as he led his lover into the confines of their spacious bathroom, discarding of the bothersome t-shirt in the threshold of the doorway before he reattached his lips to hers in a less frantic kiss, the soft press of mouths enough to leave Mikoto docile and willing, her entire frame quivering from the sudden change in their tempo.

She couldn't help but admire his powerful physique through heavily lidded eyes; light tan indicating his continual exposure to the harsher elements of Konoha's climate, rippling musculature that folded into solid packs of hard, firm ridges, six lining his stomach until met with the narrow dip to his pelvic bone and hips, the deeply cut lines emerging from his loose khaki's rendering her without moisture in her mouth—it instead travelled to _other_ places, far more intimate and personal for public display—the thick, corded muscles that flexed with every twitch beneath the taut skin of his biceps never ceasing to amaze her.

But what always cooled her passionate ardour were the horrific scars that marred his bronzed complexion, from missions of the highest calibre, and from certain traumatic events in his past that he refused to acknowledge or share with her for fear of reliving the horrors all over again.

It seemed that being an heir to a prestigious clan was not all it was cracked up to be, she had mused over and over again on many a past occasion, whilst tracing a careful, tender finger along the thick, bumpy lesions, if such treatment was the punishment that was dispersed on command for any mistakes or insubordinate actions against the ideals of the elder patriarchs.

Even now, having been married for just over four and a half years, was she still disarmed by the ghastly damage that had been inflicted upon him—mentally, emotionally and physically.

He would never be the same again, that was a given.

She brushed tender hands down his forefront , one palm resting against the naked flesh of his chest, hovering over his left nipple, which stiffened at the unexpected contact, the other wandering ever so carefully over the sharp contours of his profile, her sooty eyes soft, contemplative.

He was solid beneath her fingertips, and against her navel, bringing a surge of pink to her already dusty cheeks, her neatly shaped nails grazing over the lovely ridges and perfectly formed lumps until she reached the hem of his loose khakis, toying idly with the waistline whilst her other hand absorbed the chaotic thumping of his heart thrumming against his breastbone—she almost very literally held his heart in her hand.

A smile formed on her lips.

Yes, she liked the sound of that (his colours, distorted as they were, were still beautiful, magnificent to behold, and she wanted to take his shades and paint them black with her endless love, for it was the only "colour" that he would wear wilfully).

Fugaku watched her carefully, expression hardly schooled as he let the animal within take control, eyes ablaze with what one would describe as 'passion' as he all but tugged her up to his mouth by the very roots of her hair, tongue stealing away her reservations as he invaded in a swift flurry of saliva and gnashing teeth.

Mikoto did not protest, her hands remaining firmly in place, even as his own began to yank at the buttons of her purple sundress relentlessly, an impatient grunt permeating the thickened atmosphere and reverberating soundly off of the tiled walls.

This would not do.

Peeling her hands from his overheated frame, the elder male shoved her back, hardly gentle, against the bathroom wall (such stale colours, black and white and oh so very _monochromatic_; much alike her beloved husband, who could only see with hazy tunnelled vision), hands in a frenzy all their own as he fumbled with every button, anxious to feel her skin against his own.

She aided him in his mission, undoing the last of the pesky hindrances with little effort, before shirking the material from her slender shoulders, and allowing the material to pool in a rumbled heap around her feet.

Clad in only her tasteful lingerie (a lacy black number, indubitably, that accentuated her figure and made her skin glow, brought her to life like a priceless artwork upon heavy canvas), Mikoto stepped forward, hands seeking the warmth of his body; he obliged without the need for pointless chatter, hauling her to him in one swift tug, before his mouth was all over her like a rash, pressing indefinitely against the curve of her neck, shoulder, breast, hip, thigh, before trailing possessively up her navel (tongue dipping into the small juncture of her bellybutton for a quick tease), the flat planes of her tummy, higher still, until he was rested, on his knees, beneath the camber of her covered breasts.

His hands were already unhooking the lacy brassiere before the ravenette could even lift a finger, the scanty fabric falling from their place over her shoulders, down her arms, until it met with the cold floor, her eyes comically wide as he trailed an indolent finger from the tendon in her ankle up her calf (a fickle tickle to the back of her knee not going amiss), over her thigh, joshing over the front of her concealed sex—his insolent smirk not missed by his irritated lover, whom was about ready to slap him if he didn't cease in his tormenting of her—before ghosting mischievous fingertips over her abdomen, coming to a stop at the plump swell of her left breast.

Mikoto's breath hitched, almost painfully, in the recesses of her throat as she watched on in fascinated horror as his index finger flicked at the supple, heavy flesh, forever weighed down by the birth of their son, the curved, full globe jostling under the sudden action.

His other hand rested comfortably on her right hip, cradling the velvety arc between heavily calloused palms, the pad of his thumb rubbing rhythmic circles against the bared skin as he met her startled gaze with his own.

He smirked.

She smiled shyly in response, cheeks tinged with a soft pink as her hand right hand curled over his left, ceasing his comforting and beckoning him to pursue without need for heedless tickling.

Fugaku was all too happy to oblige, his free hand taking the raised, darkened peak that was her nipple between thumb and forefinger, and tugging it until it had reached full erectness, before placing it then between his palm and thumb, rolling and teasing the sensitive nub until it was sore and aching and oh so very red (a colour he had come to appreciate even more, for now it did not just represent death and pain and loss and evil, but pleasure and lust and passion and fiery, impassioned love).

Still on his knees before her, Fugaku leaned forward, nuzzling her navel affectionately, before raising his head so that he was levelled with her upper tummy, roughly inhaling the freshness of her scent (she smelt of flowers and grass and trees and fresh air; she was the epitome of nature, his own springtime), before his lips parted against her naked ribcage.

The wetness of his parted lips, warm and invigorating, surprised her out of her stunned stupor, the tip of his inquisitive tongue flicking out like a serpent's against her and drawing from her own lips a gasp, before his mouth pressed down firmly, hot saliva sticking to her like a second skin as he began to leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses across her tightening abdomen.

He moved further up, tongue meeting the same curve of naked, full flesh that his fingertip had not long before, tracing the plentiful bend between the generous sphere of her breast with the wet appendage, before, with an agonising slowness, he dragged the very tip of his tongue up, up, up, over the sensitive ring of textured skin to meet with the hardened treasure it held in its centre.

An instant coil of liquid fire formed, a delicious ache not seen in an age waking from slumber and spreading throughout her body, dusty with disuse.

Hopefully this would be rectified, and soon.

His pleasuring of her was methodical, calculated, with only enough pressure applied to leave her nipple quivering from the agonising torture of his ministrations, and her yearning for more—_friction_.

Mikoto squirmed against him, the hand that was resting on her hip twitching impulsively, matching the sardonic smirk that burst to life upon his handsome features as he gazed up at her through long, sooty eyelashes.

God she loved those eyes of his, so intense, giving nothing and yet everything in a single glance.

Her hands moved to cup his cheeks delicately between her palms.

He had a light spattering of stubble, stubble that would soon be removed, no doubt, after he had had his fill of her body.

He gazed back at her evenly, eyes ablaze; he was lost, lost in lust, lost in colours, lost in the colours of her love once more.

The hand on her hip twitched again.

His mouth closing around that very same throbbing nub swallowed his triumphant smirk as she moaned loudly, head lolling backwards, towards the roof of their bathroom, her legs clamping compulsively together.

Not if he could help it.

Removing his left hand from her hip to her right breast, he made short work of the other nipple, having already suffered enough neglect these past few minutes than deserved, leaving his right hand to do a little exploration. A re-expedition of already chartered territory, so to speak.

Smirking inwardly, he allowed the tips of his fingers to ghost over the smooth planes of her skin, following the soft dips and contours until he was met with the lacy material of her black undergarments.

Her hips reflexively tilted away from his touch, a garbling groan erupting from Mikoto's throat as she registered his intent.

But it was too late for her acts of rebellion, for as fast as he had trailed downward, he had dipped passed the scanty cloth, fingers pushing passed dark curls to find a profound dampness awaiting his twitchy appendages.

Slipping between the folds of her trembling vulva, he discovered that she was already slick and moist and oh so very fucking _wet_, and his ego shot through the roof at the unexpected finding.

He had thought her uninterested in sexual encounters of late, and even though he had gone out of his way to see to it that he avoided all unnecessary contact (but when married, _all_ contact was necessary), it had wounded him to see her so plainly disinterested in him and his subtle warning signals.

It was as if she had no need for him anymore, in the sexual gratification part of their relationship, but he was relieved to find that was not the case.

Yes, she had been responding, but that didn't mean that she was truly enjoying his torturous foreplay; women were, after all, prone to faking their orgasms when required, and it killed his pride as a male to think that she had never been genuine with him at all.

Thankfully, she was every bit as real as she had been the first night he had held her to him.

He slickened his fingertips a little more, but the angle his wrist was on was not a comfortable one at all; had he been standing, he would have been perfectly fine, but crouching low on the floor?

He needed her to be free of restraint, covering, with her legs spread apart, and _now_.

And thus his left hand left her breast to be teased by the frigid air of the cold morning outside, which was filtering in without abandon though the window to their far left, above the vanity and sink, and made its journey southward, until it was met with the earlier departed hip.

He found the lacy side and tugged it down as far as he could, growing frustrated that he had to remove his hand from her moist heat in order to yank down the remaining side, but he did so efficiently, tearing them down to meet with her slender ankles.

Stepping out of her underwear, Mikoto was left completely bare, open to his scrutiny.

She had always prided herself on her figure, but having since then given birth, and having less opportunity to train with Kushina and Minato in the Training Grounds, the ravenette feared that he would be displeased with the less refined stretches of skin, which had a soft layer of fat covering the once toned musculature.

But her fears were wasted, for his eyes drank her in, every sinuous curve, ample with flesh that he could grasp between his palms and hold onto for the rest of his life, and he licked his suddenly dry lips.

He now had a deep, unrelenting thirst, but not for the water that sustained life.

No… he was more interested in the salty nectar between her closed legs. He slipped an idle finger deeper still, feeling for the familiar dipped crevice that led to the anticipated wet heat entrenched out of his reach, whilst his roughened thumb applied pressure to the convulsing pleasure centre of her body, her frame jerking from the unexpected touch.

Desire rippled through her, bursting into flames and causing her to overheat; this was all too much, happening too quickly for her to fully comprehend.

It suddenly felt as if she were virginal all over again—and she might as well have been, considering the lack of intimacy she had shared with him over the past year as a whole (even without Itachi's disturbances, there had been little going on between them, between Fugaku's stress and Mikoto's fatigue).

Suddenly shy, the ravenette tried in vain to close herself off to him, but the sudden success of Fugaku's sly appendage finding its mark within her left her without reservation, her hands gripping at the suspended railing above her head so as to prevent herself from caving in and crumpling to the cold, hard floor.

His face, for once, remained carefully blank as he tested the waters, setting a rhythmic pace of pumping plus external stimulation until Mikoto swore she was seeing stars above her upturned head.

Cheeks flushed, mouth open in a permanent gasp, eyes clenched shut, hips grinding against his open palm—a beautiful sight indeed.

He made very quick work of her, bringing her to the very precipice of bliss before removing himself from her entirely, her groan of disappointment bringing forth a lascivious snicker from the recesses of his throat, before he led her to the empty ledge alongside the bathtub (which doubled as a shower), still on his knees—an impressive feat, she mused idly, for it could not have been very comfortable without cushioning around his bent joints—as he settled between her parted thighs, his large, warm hands coming to rest tenderly against the silky flesh of the upper limbs of her legs.

And with that, he dipped his head down, not leaving her any room to protest as he brought his parted lips to the outer folds of her nether region.

A soft kiss to the swollen flesh, and she lost all grip on reality, her hands folding into the waves of his unruly dark hair as she once more raised her head in a silent cry to the heavens above, praying that her son would not arrive home early, so that she could have this final moment with him—for he would be gone before the day's end, without a doubt.

An inquisitive tongue traced her inner walls, flicking impertinently against the aching nub at the apex of her drenched sex, a jolt surging endlessly through her every nerve ending until she was rendered a quivering mess.

She moaned loudly, bucking up to meet his every tongue-thrust.

He dipped the tip into her, circling with deadly efficiency before he made his trail north once more, tonguing her twitching clitoris twice before encircling it between whitened teeth, nipping lightly against the hypersensitive nub and sucking it between them.

She came undone the second he included two of his fingers to the fray, the additional stimulation too much for her body to bare, her screams loud and long as she clenched him hard, pulling him in deeper still as she tried to regain her bearings.

By this point, Fugaku was on his feet, tongue tracing his lips and ridding all evidence of her arousal from his face with several deft flicks, his hands all but tearing the loose fabric of his pants down his legs, leaving him unabashedly nude before the panting ravenette.

How long had it been since she had last seen him naked, and under such circumstances?

She could not remember, and the flush that dusted across her rosy skin only attested to that.

She felt so out of her element, awkward and ugly next to his toned perfection.

She shook her head, as if to erase the thoughts entirely.

No.

She was beautiful, and she was desired, for this man would not be here, so delectably vulnerable, otherwise.

With that thought steeling her resolve, Mikoto feebly attempted to get to her feet; of course, she went limp in the limbs, having not fully recovered from the sheer intensity of her earth-shattering orgasm moments beforehand, and thus ended up in the raw heat of her husband's embrace, who steadied her shaken frame.

Calming herself, the dark haired Uchiha matriarch clambered into the vast space of their bath, pulling the shower curtain to a close as she made her way to the taps; as she busied herself with adjusting the temperature to a searing burn that matched that of the one between her thighs, she made out the distinct shuffling of the curtain being pushed back, and her lover following her example.

The soft treading of feet against wet porcelain, and then solid arms taking their natural place around her waist, holding her closer still as a mouth starved of action went on a frenzy against her pulse point.

Hot water poured around them, slickening their prone forms as they stood for a time in each other's arms, before Fugaku decided it was time to claim what was rightfully his.

Tilting her head back against his broad shoulder, the dark haired Uchiha bent down, mouth finding hers in decadent rapture as they kissed, his right hand holding her chin in place whilst his left cupped the closest breast, fingers ghosting over her areola and taut nipple whilst his tongue teased her mouth; eyes hooded, he pulled away for air, teeth tugging on her top lip as a smirk settled over his lips, her startled gasp at having her nipple pinched and pulled on satisfying a primal urge that he had come to know all too well over the years.

Her dark eyes were darker so, an indication of her want of him, and he would deny neither of them their pleasure any longer; hauling her into his arms, he settled her around his narrow hips, legs wrapped like a nimble sash around his waist as she slid into place, just above the dip of his pelvic line.

Her engorged vulva was pressed tantalisingly against his fully erect member, a groaning keen leaving both parties lips as he pushed against her, creating a delicious friction that had them seeing bursts of white light behind their opened lids; god had they missed this feeling!

With her back resting comfortably against the closest wall, and heated water spilling over their equally heated bodies, Fugaku rested his hands on the vivacious curves of her bottom, before he parted her vaginal lips with the head of his penis, pre-cum slickening his passage and her throbbing clitoris as he eased his way into her convulsing entrance, which accepted the intrusion immediately with the intent to force him out once again.

But he soldiered onward, passed the velvet walls that were so avidly trying to expel him, until he was buried to the absolute hilt, her moan and his groan meeting in unison, and he held for a moment, relishing in their first intimate encounter in a very, _very_ long time, before he tilted himself back to her opening, the fickle walls of her sex trying in vain to suck him back into their depths, just to drive him out again.

He slipped in once more, another growl of completion leaving him, and a soft mewl from her indicated her delight at his contact.

She contracted about him, fluttering lusciously around the sensitive ridges and veins that made him want to come apart almost immediately, and he pushed deeper, finding the elevation that indicated her most potent pleasure point had been reached.

And he found it, and pushed against it steadily, their slow rhythm escalating until her entire frame jostled about him, her arms snaking around his shoulders and her face burying itself in the empty juncture between there and his neck, her hips grinding and flexing against his until her whole body was in spasms, the uppermost ridge of his erection causing a delectable friction burn against both her clitoris and that oversensitive crest within her, building, building, building until she exploded around him, pleasure like no other washing over her and leaving her gasping for air between her throaty cries of ecstasy.

With the sudden tautness of her inner walls and the additional hot moisture clinging to him, Fugaku found it hard to move, hard to think and breathe, his panting matching the chaotic, sporadic thrusts that barrelled into her, farther, deeper, faster, until he too met his end, the climax that rocked him harsh and relentless; his fluids spilled into her, in endless spurts, thick and sticky, filling her to the very brim, and then he was done, spent, but extremely satiated.

They remained there, under the hot spray of the water for what seemed to be an eternity, before he removed himself from his still trembling wife, who moaned in protest to his withdrawal from her, semen sloshing down her legs, only to be moments later washed away by the suffocating blanket of watery heat that surrounded them.

Helping her to stand, Fugaku pulled her against him, and simply held her there, not letting her go for even a moment, the blast of spray from the showerhead falling like never-ending rain, the salty, heated tears of a woman who was about to lose her husband for the umpteenth time.

Like an endless sea of possibilities yet to exist, yet to come.

Like the grief of a man that could never be explained through displays of emotion; only through broken, distorted colours, and khaki clothes and ceaseless warfare (_of the heart and mind_).

* * *

She woke in the middle of the night (how time had passed so quickly, or when she had even drifted off into perpetual slumber, she did not know, nor care to know), and he was gone.

With Itachi apparently bathed, fed and put to bed also, Mikoto was left with nothing but her heartache and tears, for there was nothing at all that she could do to forget. Forget that her husband was gone—and may never return.

And if he _did_… it would most likely be in a body bag, without a doubt, or need for confirmation.

That night for five terrible months, she saw him no more.

* * *

.

..

..

..

.

Mikoto was in the shower when he made his appearance, soaked in blood, so much blood (of allies, his teammates, or enemies? She did not know), and drowning in filth; dirt, mud and all manner of insect life were caked to his flesh and clothing, weighing him down and making him look twenty years older than he was.

He stood there, with gaping, vacant eyes seeing nothing, not even her.

No, she was wrong there. What he was seeing was something that she would never be able to live through herself; the horrors of his mission, so terrible that the operation itself was revoked, called off, apparently.

So terrible that he had returned with such lifeless, empty eyes, such a blank and hollow expression; neither she had seen since his youth, when the abuse of his elders was at its peak, and it made her feel nauseous to glance upon it again, after so much time.

He truly looked like the broken man he pretended he was not, the very epitome of it.

She cupped his face, bringing those dead, dead eyes to her face, no recognition showing that he knew who she was in their guarded depths as she stroked the bloodstained, dirt-marred flesh of his bristly, unshaven face with cool, tender fingers.

Slowly she led him under the refreshing jet of water, her hands moving to the fold of his ANBU vest.

Sliding the zipper to the clip at the very bottom, she unhooked the heavy armour and peeled it from his chest, the rancid odour of death, sweat, damp and decay filling her nostrils and raising bile in her throat.

She swallowed it down, and shirked the weighty defensive material off of his rigid shoulders, throwing the stained vest onto the bathroom floor, before she made quick work of his tight, form-fitting shirt, the stretchy fabric hardly pliant with so much encrusted over and within its folds, but it came off easily under the application of water.

It met the floor and its crusty counterpart with a sickening _'splat!'_, as did his pants and shinobi sandals moments later; Mikoto had to bend down in order to help him out of them, for he was not operating as he normally would, not even mechanically, which disturbed and worried her deeply, if the concerned frown that had settled on her visage was of any indication.

She once more guided him back, arranging him directly beneath the cool spray before she set to work, grabbing the closest washcloth and scented body-wash soap, and lathering it against his reeking skin, which was blistered with wounds, horrific bruises old and new found to have blossomed beneath the thick layers of grime that she cleared from his tanned flesh with every gentle circle she made against him with the now dirty washer.

The furrow in her brow only deepened further when she took note of the deep lacerations that carved their way over his old inflictions.

Inflamed with infection, puss seeping from the crusty edges of the cragged cuts, a foul stench accompanying the horrific visual; it was truly a devastating sight to behold.

But it wasn't so much the external defects that concerned her so much; it was the inevitable psychological damage that he must have been suffering, the taut set of his rounded shoulders only indicating as such.

It was as if he was still poised for battle, wound like a coiled spring waiting to come undone, to sheath its deadly barbs into its next victim, and that alone brought the anguished tears to the very surface of her heart.

She wept as she cleansed him of his physical imperfections, erased the scum that was clouding his eyes to the truth; the bloody red, thick as mud before his eyes, that prevented him from identifying her as his beloved wife, and not an enemy wrought with evil intent, with the will to plunder, kill and destroy.

A garbled _'hic!'_ escaped from within the confines of her throat, which had constricted with the sheer effort of withholding her heartbroken sobs (for this man's colours had once again been blurred, smudged and tainted with darkness until all his rainbow of magnificent colours had all but been extinguished), and willpower was all she had left to muster in order to prevent herself from falling in upon herself.

He needed her now.

She could not afford weakness of any form to pervade into her resolve.

Biting her lip and clasping it firmly between the hard ridges of her teeth, Mikoto moved tender hands to the area above his breast, the chaotic thrumming of his heartbeat doing little to calm her unease as she tended to the biting, gaping tears upon his pectoral.

They stung with septicity, and she flinched as she traced their hardened, crumby surface with a gentle fingertip, but she made sure that the wounds weren't in need of urgent medical assistance before she applied dainty pressure to the weeping slits, ridding the open sores of as much grime as she possibly could on the bodily level before she pulled him further along, until he was directly positioned beneath the frigid jet of water spewing from the faucet above.

Removing the shampoo and conditioner bottles from their respective places upon the shower's mantelshelf, the ravenette poured a generous glob of the shampoo's oozy cream into the shell of her cupped palm, replacing the lid and the bottle to its rightful place before lathering the soap suds into the rancid strands that made up his hair (which closely resembled that of rat's tails), rubbing the gelatinous substance into his scalp with skilful hands with little resistance. He remained stiff as ever, unresponsive to her treatment.

With the water pouring over his stilled frame, and his dark eyes downcast, void of all expression, life, he looked like a lost child without a purpose to keep him in the world, a broken shell of an even more broken man.

He was the collateral damage that made up the summation of his clan's brutality.

The doll that had been offed of his usefulness, and had fulfilled nothing worthwhile…

Nothing but her, and the beautiful boy asleep in the room down the hall from them.

And that was enough; was all that he needed, would ever need. Rinsing the soapsuds from his now coarse hair—along with a copious amount of dirt and insect life—Mikoto added the conditioner to soften and fully rid him of his foul state of uncleanliness, the smooth, rich texture peeling the knotted clumps apart and leaving his now long hair dripping and shaggy, well passed his shoulders (five months truly highlighted the differences between their growth).

Once satisfied that he was clean to a satisfactory extent, Mikoto switched off the water faucet and stepped out from the bath, leaning against the sill nearby in order to support her weight from meeting any unfortunate accidents as she reached for a fluffy white towel on the rack nearby, large enough to engulf her frame entirely.

Turning, she reached for Fugaku, hands cautious and deliberate in demonstrating to him that she was of no threat to him; somehow, deep beneath that exterior of aloof indifference, he still recognised that she was at least of no real threat to him, and that was shown when he allowed her to manipulate his body from the bathtub and into their dimly lit bedroom.

Wrapping him in the bathrobe hanging from the back of the bathroom door to cover his nudity, and covering herself from the chill of the winter blizzard outside, Mikoto made herself sparse, bustling around the room and tidying wherever she could, whilst sorting out the mess that was her head.

_More firewood for the fireplace_, she thought idly, pensively throwing in a few logs and poking them about until they caught alight, a delightful orange warmth bathing the room in its comforting glow as the raven haired woman plodded on, stepping back into the bathroom to clean up the mess made by her almost comatose husband.

_And he'll need a shave too_, she added as an afterthought, hand to cheek as she brushed some stray strands from her face, hands busy with scrubbing the scum left from Fugaku's unexpected return from every surface that he had come into contact with.

Throwing his stale clothes into the nearest wash-basket after she was finished with the tiresome task (knowing that they were beyond salvaging, but willing to compromise due to the fact that he was very particular about his uniforms), Mikoto made her way over to the bathroom's vanity, pulling from the cupboard beneath the sink a large metal basin, and from the mantle itself a men's razor, a face washer, a mug filled with shaving cream and a barber's brush to apply said cream with, before she slipped out of the cold bathroom (it felt like a clinical base for medical research, and not a comfortable room to bathe in after all of that blood and dirt) and into the heat of their bedroom.

There, on the bed, he sat, in the same spot and position as she had left him an hour prior, form prone and lifeless as ever.

Eyelids suddenly burdened with fatigue, Mikoto struggled onward, fighting to remain awake so that she could continue on with his careful caring.

Shaking her head as if to disperse the pesky irritancy known as sleep from her thoughts, the ravenette settled herself upon the mattress in front of him, cautious in the way in which her weight tilted against its surface, for one wrong move would lead to inevitable death of some kind.

Her gaze was met with a heavily bowed head.

With much consideration for his unpredictable temperament, Mikoto tenderly raised his face until it was gazing emptily at her, with no hint of recognition whatsoever plaguing his features as he looked back at her imploring eyes.

Nothing.

Nada.

Brushing the damp strands from his forehead, the younger woman ran her fingers and palms over the too familiar planes of his face, reacquainting themselves with his features as she fingered the light beard that had grown over his pallid complexion.

Something was seriously off, if his naturally dark olive skin was so pale.

Dipping the dry cloth into the basin, filled with lukewarm water, Mikoto gnawed on her bottom lip, obviously distressed about his mental state, before she wrung out the fabric, extending a slow hand to brush against the thick spattering of facial hair, moistening his skin from chin to jaw, lip to nose.

Satisfied that she had done enough to avoid future injury, the ravenette allowed the washcloth to float atop the water's surface, the ripples soothing her frazzled nerves as she took the soft barber's brush and dipped it into the shaving mug, swirling it around in the thick white cream until it was smothered in white.

Lifting the implement to his face, Mikoto pressed on, treading carefully and testing his reaction by dragging the sweeper across the hairy flesh.

When it seemed that he was not going to harm her, merely sitting quietly, completely withdrawn from the world around him, Mikoto proceeded with brisk, deft movements, until all of the affected areas were covered with the sticky unguent. Replacing the besom in the mug and setting it aside on the bedside table, the young woman then moved onto the crucial part—the shaving.

Who knew if such an act would provoke violence, especially since the razor blade could also be implemented as a weapon, had that been her intention, and since none of what she had done prior to this integral moment had been perceived by him as a threat, she had been given allowance to proceed as normal.

But if he decided on a whim that she was moving with intent to harm, he would not hesitate in killing her where she was sitting, so she made it her first priority to reassure him that she meant him no ill will.

Running her fingertips over his forehead in a feather-light kiss so tender that it could melt butter, Mikoto whispered soft nothings into the ambience of the room, her voice shaky, but reassuring.

"Fugaku, honey, I'm going to clean you up, alright? I'm going to shave your beard with your razor," a distinct flinch was her response, indicating that at least she had his undivided attentions, "so there is no need for panic. I will be quick, I promise."

And with that she raised her right arm, poised for recoil in case of any untoward behaviour, but other than a shift in his breathing pitch, all was normal.

Well, as normal as it could have been in such a situation.

Resting the bladed surface against his left cheek, Mikoto slowly trailed it down the thick trail of dark hair, removing it efficiently in long strips, leaving behind smooth skin beneath its wake.

There were signs of a few mild rashes here and there, smattered about all over, but as she made careful trails along his jaw and cheekbone, she realised that none were infested with disease, and so all she needed to do was rub some heat rash cream into the blazing red patches in order to quell their heat.

She leaned in closer, intently watching the way in which she peeled away the layers of fuzz, conscious of his sudden closeness.

He smelt cleansed, relinquished of the foulness of earlier and fresh for an evening between clean silken sheets.

As soon as she was done, that is.

The minute she finished the left side of his face—with cream still smeared over the remaining three quarters of his face—she felt the compulsive urge to lean in and inhale his scent.

It was all too strange, unbelievable, that he was back within arm's reach again, and she wished to absorb the significance into her very pores.

Razor resting in the cradle of her left palm, Mikoto pressed her left to his newly shaven one, eyes hooded as she took him in; purely masculine, nothing short of musky. Her man, most definitely.

With a watery smile, she leaned back, only to seconds' later press a gentle kiss to the uncovered skin of his exposed cheek, her hand toying with the damp ends of his hair as she did so.

Moving back, eyes still heavy with disbelief, Mikoto placed the razor once again into her right palm, and continued on with her gentle treatment; with every sliver of skin freed of stubbly imprisonment, she placed a loving kiss, eyelids continuing to sink lower still even as she approached his upper lip.

A kiss to his sideburn, his cheek, his jowl and prominent jawline, his chin, and more peppering to meet with the crevice that was the end of his nose and the beginning of his upper lip; kisses, fleeting and sweet, deep and lingering, were showered upon his smooth skin, and she became intoxicated by the sheer rush it brought her.

Fugaku had never been a man of many emotions, and he was most certainly _not_ a physical man (excluding sexually charged activities, of course) that was known or gave allowance for PDA by any standard.

But in this one moment, where he was completely irresponsive, Mikoto poured out all of her affections, slow in placement as she removed every inch of dark hair from his blank face, but effective in conveying her restrained emotions.

Left hand cradling the base of his skull, right hand placed above his pouty upper lip, the raven haired woman shuffled closer, her closed knees meeting with his crossed legs, readying herself for the final act.

With a steady, practised hand, Mikoto sheared away the last of the stubble, leaving him bare, naked for the world's viewing pleasure.

Dipping the razor into the cooling water hardly broke her from her trance, the wet washcloth coming to wipe away the excess cream and stickiness left upon his flesh before she discarded it, all but forgotten as she leaned forward, at first kissing the very tip of his aristocratic nose, before leaving a lingering press of lips to the junction between his nose and upper lip.

Tilting her head, with her right hand now stroking his left cheek affectionately, Mikoto pressed her mouth the very corner of his own, her lips only slightly parted as she moved on, to the bridge of his nose, the space between his eyebrows, his eyelids and his forehead, her lips remaining in place there for a few blissful moments before she descended once more, raining kisses upon his left cheek as if she were paying homage to him (and in a sense she was, for he was her Black God of Night, the one who magnified her colours by brightening them with his own) before kissing the other corner, now quirked oddly, of his parted orifice.

It was a kiss that stayed there, did not leave, for many a moment, but she was content in its placement, and thus had no intention of removing herself from his presence just yet.

A few more moments and she repeated the process, over and over, her eyes warmed with love and tears as she kissed him endlessly, mouth avoiding his own out of respect for his current condition, but soldiering on without dispute.

_More_, her mind seemed to say, and so she took and took and took, whilst giving all the while.

Just as she went to kiss the dip leading to his parted lips, his head inclined, if only slightly, so that his lips melded softly with hers.

It was a kiss that made her folded knees melt into a puddle of indescribable goo, and her toes curl in a delicious fashion, so lovingly doting, so affectionately sweet, that it was almost agonising as well.

Such bittersweet emotion!

Eyes wide with surprise, hands still cupping his face between tender palms, Mikoto looked upon her husband, whose own eyes seemed to have cleared, if only a little.

And what she saw in them was something that she fervently wished that she could forget, erase from her memories forever.

A torturous burden of emotion, a faceted well filled with endless tears and pain, was opened up to her, and whether or not he was physically aware of what he was unintentionally exposing was indeterminable.

All that mattered now was that look of sheer martyrdom that had filled the gaping hole of his face and thus created a new paradox of impossibilities for her to explore.

So much heartache in that one gaze alone that Mikoto's heart physically clenched within her chest to accompany his own pain, her eyes rapidly brimming with tears as she watched his episode unfold.

Mouths still joined in a velvety press of flesh, the ravenette watched on as Fugaku regained some of his lost mobility, his eyes clearing to accommodate her presence.

He looked stunned, as if he hadn't expected her to be a part of his delusion, but obviously she was a welcome distraction, as his expression went from confused to awed in an instant.

"M…iko…to…?"

The audible tremor in his voice forced a few traitorous tears to leak from her glistening orbs, and she merely smiled, a small gap between their once joined mouths as she only nodded adamantly, too shocked to be vocal in her confirmation.

That was all he had needed though, for with his pained eyes and expression he jerked his hand upward so that it clutched her frail wrist between his calloused palm, his mouth slanting over hers in a searing kiss that reeked of desperation.

She reciprocated fully and without hesitance, hands continuing to hold him close as he rediscovered the capabilities of his body.

Reconnecting with his natural instincts, Fugaku eased her onto her back, hurling the heavy metal basin onto the floor (water splashing to its unfortunate end upon the wooden planks of their bedroom floor) with a resounding _'clang!'_ being the indication that it had made its intended mark, settling himself over her petite frame with ease.

Legs straddling her slim, curvy waist, the elder man pushed his mouth down upon hers, teeth gnashing together with the force of his need (to _forget_, to never again have to _relive_ it, the _horrors_ of his past, of this _mission_, of _everything_ but her and him, then and there) as he parted her lips with an obtrusive tongue.

Invading into the satiny confines of her mouth, Fugaku traced the entirety of her parted orifice with fraught adeptness, familiarising himself once more to a mouth he had kissed many a time before, knew all too well for gifting her with that pretty voice and those heartfelt, sincere words, but never grew tired of.

His hands were everywhere, indicating his desperation as he relieved her of her towel, slipping it from her as he repaid her for her earlier treatment of him, his lips creating tingles and raising the hairs on her flesh with every renegade kiss to the intimate regions of his apparent interest.

Naked skin and lips and a flurry of movements were all that Mikoto registered in her brain, numbed from the suddenness of his "recovery" to life; her wonderful ray of sunshine was back, but the rain that had dampened his eyes had infected the blinding glow, dulling it down to a soft distortion that she did not recognise, was not accustomed to nor familiar with.

Her mind was pulled from her musings when he dipped his tongue into the cleft above her navel, his dark eyes morosely hidden behind heavy lids as he dragged the moist glossa down her tummy, creating a snail-trail of wet saliva that followed the curve of her closest thigh, down to her knee, her shin, before he leaned back on the balls of his feet, her ankle raised up to meet with his intent face, still weighed down with sadness so profuse that more tears were shed at the sight.

Rubbing his now velvety cheek tenderly against the soft skin at the base of her foot, Fugaku locked gazes with his wife, who squirmed in response to the heated stare.

Instead of his trademark smirk, the dark haired man turned his lips in the direction of the foot he had taken the liberty of cradling, before he pressed a kiss to the sensitive instep, her entire frame jerking along with her incapacitated limb.

She had always been very ticklish, so naturally her foot was a no-go zone in her book of intimate dos and don'ts, but he had once again defied all expectations, and was now completely unpredictable in his decided movements. Allowing his right hand to glide down the satiny skin of her inner leg (whilst remaining firm in his grip upon her raised, parted right leg), Fugaku made his descent, deliberately unhurried as he tickled the hypersensitive flesh in winding arcs of touch.

He was all fingertip and nail.

Her blood heated in response.

Face flushed, eyes wide and unseeing, body arching into the mattress (acting purely off of the mechanical instinct to avoid being teased in such a frivolously provocative manner), Mikoto was a mess of shaking, unsteady limbs, all twisted and contorting still to acclimatise to the new sensations that he was awakening within her.

Such lewd displays were never apart of their usual routine in the bedroom, the pair generally conforming to what she felt more comfortable with (for sex with kinks made her uneasy, no matter how comfortable she was with him seeing her in a state not suitable for prying eyes), but now, at this very moment, he was throwing that discomfort to the winds to be swept away amidst heated tidings of lust and passion.

Fingertips dancing hotly in fast to slow circles and unintelligible swirls against her quivering limb, and the ravenette felt her every nerve standing on end.

The hairs that diligently covered her pale skin were raised into fine pinpricks, the tingling only increasing with every scorching touch he left against her (regardless of the fact that he was barely touching her flesh at all, feather light as they could be).

As he toyed with her, Fugaku moved forward, along the length of her leg, leaving wet, lingering kisses to each portion of leg until he met the inside of her kneecap; his tongue slipped out from between parted lips, tracing the creased bend in a deft flick and ultimately ripping yet another shudder from her writhing form.

He was being awfully bold.

Placing another kiss just off to the side of his moist trail, he moved downward, raising her leg higher until it was draped over his shoulder, his left hand securing it in pace as he made his descent further still, pressing his mouth the centre of her thigh.

His right hand had already ventured to its lowest point, crested between her pelvic bone and the coarse hair that shielded her most intimate area.

His index finger drew a line over the strong bone, curving downward to meet the voluptuous curvature that was her bottom, before it shadowed the innermost fold up until he was met with the convulsing opening of her nether region.

Her body started at the contact, clearly not expecting the sudden transition.

Mikoto honestly felt as if she would come undone if he went any further, such was her desire for him, and her whole body sung in preparation for the blessed moment.

He did not disappoint.

Parting her folds with his index and middle fingers, Fugaku traced the moistened velvet within, his sadness temporarily forgotten as he concentrated on a task he knew with every fibre of his being, the two probing digits slipping into the heated depths of her womanhood with quick succession, thumb coming to rest upon her weeping clitoris, which beseeched him to continue with rapid twitching against the calloused surface.

Ebony irises still overshadowed by his eyelids, Fugaku proceeded without warning, the circular motion of his thumb atop her outermost pleasure point causing her hips to push against his open palm, which cupped her sex in order for his deeply thrusting fingers to reach their target.

And when they did, her left leg spread apart further, toes curling into the mattress as she arched her entire body heavenward, hips tilting to meet his hectic pace.

Right wrist firmly clamped between her teeth to prevent her sobs of pleasure from becoming vocal, the raven haired beauty continued to move in time to his frantic pleasuring, her head thrashing wildly against the silken doona beneath her petite figure.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks at the throbbing ache that settled in her loins; this was all too much for her to bear.

But her husband was clearly not finished with her yet. More kisses seared against her burning flesh as he made his way down, down, down, until he was buried between her ample thighs, mouth and tongue replacing the impertinent thumb and sending delicious spasms up her stiffened spine.

With a few soft flicks of his tongue against the tender nub, and several harsh sucks, she had met her limit, her entire body caving to her need as she came, hard, her walls clenching his fingers and holding them deeply in place within her.

She couldn't, this was all…!

His mouth folded over the twitching folds of flesh, tongue working to clean up the mess she had made over herself until she swore that the stars had come crashing down upon her.

Licking away the remnants of her arousal from her moist slit and from his fingers, Fugaku moved on, that same unrelenting anguish settling over his features as he once again became lost in lust, and in pain.

Against the cushions she was pinned, helpless to stop him, a slave to her own desire, and she wouldn't have had it any other way.

Untying the loose sash surrounding his bathrobe, Mikoto slid the material from his shoulders, making the affectionate rub of her hands over his shoulders purposefully deliberate in its suggestive slowness, but that only fuelled his need further.

He would have this woman.

And he would have her _now_.

Unabashedly nude for her viewing pleasure (battle scars peppering every inch of flesh she could lay her eyes upon), Fugaku parted her thighs, settling between them before pushing his throbbing erection against the weeping juncture at the base of her legs, grinding against her and creating a delectable friction between their exposed sexes.

His movements from there were rushed, as if he couldn't take enough of her in, and the intoxication spread throughout their bodies until neither could stand it any longer.

Positioning himself at her taut entrance, Fugaku pressed himself inside, the groans that they made vocal synonymous in their timing as he delved further, deeper, until he was fully sheathed within her soaking passage, his breathing hitching and giving way to erratic pants as he all but hauled her legs up, urging them to remain around his narrow hips as he plunged on, the ridges and veins of his member rubbing delightfully against the hypersensitive walls of her vagina.

With her head tossing chaotically against the sea of cushions, Mikoto could clearly make out the distinct shadow of his outline, a haunting visage accentuated by the fast-fading eerie orange flames flickering in the background, the dying embers bringing darkness upon them once more as she arched into his body, their chests pressed together until there was no room for them to breathe separately; they became one being.

A being that breathed the same breaths, felt the same blinding pleasure, endured the same level of pain.

In that one moment, all was as one.

Mikoto's arms folded around his neck, pulling his forehead down until it was close enough for her to kiss, her pelvis undulating to meet with the thrusts of her lover as she moaned his name with such startling conviction that she began to weep, her tears being wiped away by the calloused thumbs of her husband, whose face was shadowed behind long locks of inky black hair.

The coil deep within her was set alight, and the ravenette felt her right thigh begin to spasm in readiness; not long now…

Her body moved with an urgency that rivalled his own as he barrelled into her, no longer in control, lunges no longer measured as he let the madness take control, until she came undone beneath him, her frame melding into his as she merged with completion.

"M…i…ko…to…"

Through hazy eyes said woman gazed adoringly up at the man still plundering away within her, only to feel more tears well at the sight she was graced with.

Fugaku, her sweet, loving, cold but caring husband, was on the verge of tears, the pesky water sprites dangerously close to spilling from his eyes as he stared back at her in desperate wonder.

The deep clenching within her warned her of her impending orgasm, but what truly stole her breath was the expression across his face; it was the first and only time that she had seen him look so vulnerable, exposed, and the rawness of emotion that seeped off of his skin was tangible.

He craned over her, his mouth all over her skin, kisses to her bared throat, collarbone, shoulders, naked breasts being laid everywhere, butterflies settling in her stomach as she felt the first wet splats of his tears against her flushed skin.

"Mi…ko…to… Mi…ko…to…"

It was like a hymn to the gods, a mantra that he repeated over and over again in the shell of her ear until she fell over the precipice once more, her body convulsing violently around his until he too came, hard and fast, into her womb, the thick ejaculate sending hot tingles all over her body as his mouth closed over hers, capturing both of their moans with tongue and teeth.

Even stilled above her he wept, bitter tears feeding her own until they met as one, falling from both of their eyes onto the dirtied linen beneath their heads.

She cradled his face between her palms, wiping away the source of his grief with deft swipes as she soothed his heartache, kisses once more peppered across his skin until she was lying stomach down on the bed, his body poised over hers and his arms wrapped around her in a constrictive embrace that warmed her to her toes, his mouth pressing kisses to the broad expanse of her shoulders, back and arm.

He wished to hide his shame from her.

And she acquiesced without complaint, allowing him to shed tears behind her veil of hair and against her neck, not once saying anything as he poured his heart out into the depths of her skin itself.

Her name the dying refrain upon his chapped, bloody lips.

* * *

He never did tell her what his tears were for.

But she did not expect as much.

And oddly enough, she was fine with that, for he was, after all, her golden ray of sunshine, the hope and love of her very life itself, and that was enough for her.

A damaged man she loves, yes.

But regardless of the sacrifices that she inevitably has to make, it is always worth it.

_He_ is always worth it.

* * *

**O.o.o.o.o.o.O**

* * *

Mikoto was looking out into the garden, eyes thoughtful as she stroked the rounded arch that had become her stomach over the last six months.

He would be born soon.

A smile lifted at her lips.

Yet another colour for Fugaku to love and cherish, another one to add to his ever growing, expanding, rainbow.

Itachi had been playing in the garden until only short while ago, but he was now settled over Mikoto's lap, face nuzzled against the expanse of her swollen belly, and his hands resting at her hips. Her adorable little man; he already adored his baby brother so much, and he had yet to be brought into the world.

_"He'll be the one that I can protect!"_ He had exclaimed when she had told him of her pregnancy.

_"Just like how otou-sama protects kaa-chan!" _

The warmth that had settled in her heart at that could not be compared to, and so she merely held him to her, tears in her eyes as she noted with astounding clarity that her little boy was growing up.

Just as she had, and just as his father had, many years before.

Yes, he would protect him.

Just as she would continue to protect her love, from his hurt and his past afflictions, from everything that posed him harm, from _himself_.

Just as he had been doing for her, for so many years now.

Another soft smile, as she ran her right hand sweetly through her little man's hair.

He had soon fallen asleep after deeming that his little brother would become their own little "warrior" when he was finally here, and that he should have the name befitting of such a status.

It had inspired her.

Eyes flickering from his prone form to the setting sun off in the distant planes of Konoha, Mikoto let out an exasperated sigh.

As always, he was a shinobi first and foremost, and a husband and father whenever his schedule allowed him to be; naturally, he was away on an important dignitary mission in the eastern borders of Suna, and thus would be a few weeks.

A few weeks that had already come and gone, converging into months now; honestly! He had missed most of her pregnancy, _again_.

But still she smiled.

He was her man, and it wouldn't sit well with her if he had neglected his duties simply because of her whimsical desires.

The chirping of birds began to fade as the sun fell behind the horizon, a light darkness settling over her as the moon made its appearance from behind misty clouds.

It looked like rain was due.

A solid kick to her tummy tore her from her musings, her surprise evident as she gazed down dotingly at her stomach, humouring her son as she hummed a soft tune to him, mildly stroking the tender skin through light springtime clothing.

It seemed that the kick had also disturbed her eldest son, for he gave a disgruntled groan before sinking back into the wonders of dreamland, an adorable crease furrowing between his brows as he shifted closer to his mother's radiant warmth.

She was all too happy to give it.

"Such beautiful moonlight tonight…"

Mikoto murmured softly, captivated by the ambience it produced around and within her.

Enraptured, she failed to notice the stealthy presence behind her until its familiar heat settled around her, steely arms locking around her frame possessively and hauling her into a typically masculine embrace.

A breathtaking smile stretched across her face.

"You're late, Fugaku."

His head merely nuzzled its way into the juncture between her shoulder and neck, a soft kiss to her throat the only apology she was going to get from the dignified, proud Uchiha patriarch.

But that was fine.

She loved all of his kisses, and the ones when he was sorry were some of the very best he had ever given her (for there were so few to account for).

"A good mission, I take it?"

A terse, gruff monosyllabic grunt was her only response, but she deciphered it easily.

"Glad to be home?"

There was a teasing lilt to her voice, but it was a question asked in all seriousness.

Fugaku glanced at her with his peripherals, before trailing to the small form dozing on her folded lap.

He could not stop the warmth that flooded into his eyes or heart at the sight, and his hand instinctively went to brush against the smooth skin of his son's face; his other hand was placed carefully over the magnificent bump that was his wife's stomach, thumb tracing comforting circles against her bellybutton as his son kicked him animatedly; probably his divine punishment for making his family wait so long for his return.

He smiled at the thought, Mikoto capturing the moment with a tender gaze in his direction.

With his wonderful colours wrapped in his embrace, and the new canvas upon which he would soon imprint his own upon, Fugaku could think of nothing else but a decadent golden sunrise.

The dawn to his new beginning.

"Glad to be home."

* * *

**O.o.o.o.o.o.O**

~_**Owarimashita**_

**O.o.o.o.o.o.O**

* * *

**Ending Remarks:**_ This was meant to be a vague recount of my own ponderings, so as to suit the mysterious nature of Mikoto and Fugaku's tedious (or so I believe it to be) relationship, and although it does not fill all of the blanks, it was an intentional choice on my behalf to do so. Without any real knowledge as to the parallels of their love or marriage, it is hard to make accurate assumptions based upon what we have yet to actually see, and thus the nature of their relationship in this oneshot reflects this idea of anonymity. _

_The gaps were purposely placed at particular intervals to foreshadow this, whilst also emphasising the obvious respect that must be there between them for matters of personal regard (for I could not imagine Mikoto being one to pry into other people's problems, much less Fugaku's, not like the fiery red haired minx Kushina anyhow; she would be more open to just "being there" for the person in their time of need, or so I would like to think). _

_Hopefully I managed to convey such a concept effectively, as that was my intent in altering my style to cater for the needs of this story. _

_I chose not to elaborate on any of the details pertaining to Fugaku's mission out of respect for my initial idea of "privacy", and as seen through the ever understanding Mikoto, he needs a lot of that in order to get by in his day to day life and duties as a clan head. _

_And against many people's better judgement, I find Fugaku to be quite a likeable character; he has a dynamic that makes him seem standoffish and aloof, almost bitingly cold, but he truly does have a heart of gold beneath that harsh outer front/façade he puts on, as was seen in recent manga developments (so touchingly tragic, in fact, that he very nearly broke my heart with his words), and thus why I like him so much. _

_That, and he can be a complete asshole with a wife and son(s) complex on the side, which is also good to his character on a whole. XD_

_Anyhow, I hope that this was something that you could take something away from, perhaps glean a little hope from (in terms of their actual relationship status when observed on the canon level) too?_

_That said and done, I am off to continue writing on some other up-and-coming projects, as well as some long-promised-and-awaited updates too. (:_

_Until then, please do stick around (and perhaps be kind enough to leave me a review, bearing in mind that flames are not tolerated, and will be extinguished promptly and without need for thought?). ;)_

_Ja ne! x)_

_~Rin_

* * *

**Page Count on Microsoft Word: **46_ (one of my shortest "long" one's yet!)_


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